Down Weaver's Lane (15 page)

There was dead silence behind him, then a clatter of footsteps as the whole family came running out to see what was making their Jack yell like that, something he rarely did.

He shoved the baby into the arms of the first one to arrive. ‘Look after it!’ Then he bent to pick up his sister. ‘Bring her things in, Shad!’ As he carried Meg into the house, he could not believe how light she was. She was as pale as a corpse, even her lips seeming colourless. He laid her down on the rug in front of the fire, tears coming into his eyes to see what a terrible state she was in. Her clothes were ragged and dun-coloured, her legs bare of stockings and so blue-white she must be chilled through. The leather soles of her ill-fitting shoes had worn through in places and were soaked, while the tops were held together by frayed string. She had left Northby properly clad and shod, married to a man able to earn a decent living if he stayed off the ale. What had happened to her? Had Ben Pearson caused this by going back on the drink? Because if so, he’d have Jack to answer to.

He reached out to smooth a lock of damp hair from Meg’s clammy forehead. She did not stir and her breathing was so shallow it barely lifted her chest. ‘Eh, she’s in a bad way. Someone fetch me a blanket, quick!’ He heard the faint gasping cry of a sickly baby from behind him. ‘Can you tend to the babby, Mam? It sounds hungry.’

She nodded. ‘It’s nobbut a few months old, but I can try it with some warm milk. I doubt she’ll have any, the state she’s in.’

Jack wrapped his sister up in the blanket, then sat with her on the rug, holding her in his arms as if he could transfer his own warmth and energy into her. He watched with relief as her cheeks took on a faint pinkish tinge from the heat of the fire and at last her eyelids fluttered open. She looked up at him, whispered his name then closed her eyes again. Tears trickled out of them.

‘Man’s getting the babby some milk, Meg,’ he said gently. ‘What’s it called?’

‘Nelly.’

‘How long is it since you’ve eaten?’

‘Can’t - remember.’

‘Well, you just lie here in the warm and we’ll get you some of Mam’s good broth. You can tell us what’s happened later, when you’re feeling better.’

His mother beckoned Ginny across. ‘You hold the baby while I’ll get the milk and broth ready.’

Meg nestled her head against Jack’s chest and began to speak in a faint voice. ‘I thought I’d never get here. I walked over the tops from Rochdale. No one would stop to give me a ride.’ She sobbed suddenly. ‘He’s dead, you know. My Ben’s dead. Fell off a cart and hit his head. When they brought his body home, I thought I was going to die too. The baby was only two weeks old then. I tried to find work, but no one would take me on for more than an odd job here and there, and it was hard to look after Nelly properly. The Relief gave me some money at first to tide me over, then the man said I had to go in the poorhouse but I wouldn’t. Not till I’d seen you, asked you to help me. They take your babies away from you in that place and she’s all I’ve got now.’

‘Nay, why should you go into the poorhouse when you’ve allus got a home with us?’

She looked up at him and gave a long, shuddering sigh. ‘What would we do without you, Jack? You’re the best brother in the whole world.’

He had to swallow hard or he’d have been weeping with her.

His mother knelt beside him with a bowl of broth containing small pieces of bread. ‘You hold her up, Jack, an’ I’ll spoon some food in.’ As her daughter’s eyes closed again, she shook the thin shoulder. ‘Stay awake, Meg. You’ll not get better if we don’t get summat down you.’ After a few spoonfuls she looked across at Ginny, who was feeding the child, and said, ‘Your babby’s supping its milk. Were you still feeding it yoursen?’

‘No. My milk dried up.’

As Netta glanced back towards the baby, she frowned. Nelly was not taking her food with any great enthusiasm and she had a frail air to her. ‘How old is she, then?’

‘Five months.’

Netta didn’t say it, but Nelly was so small she was amazed to hear she was that old.

It wasn’t for a few days, until his sister’s fever had subsided and the baby had picked up a bit, that Jack realised he had yet another burden to carry now. But he could never have turned Meg away.

One day in December John Garrett was looking out of the window of the bank, feeling pleased that his wife was now well again, when he caught sight of Mrs Oswald in the street. She was leaning heavily on her young maid’s arm and walking slowly and awkwardly, as if her hip pained her. Guilt flooded through him. He had not written to the Armisteads about their elderly relative and had done nothing about the rest of the silver, either. He must have it valued. Though maybe that would not matter so much if the Armisteads could be persuaded to do their duty.

He went straight back to his office and composed a suitable letter, sending it off within the hour by messenger since the Armisteads lived only an hour’s drive away. Then he settled to work with all the satisfaction of a man who had done his best to help someone weaker than himself.

 

The Armistead family usually took luncheon together at Moor Grange when they were all home, as they were today. Claude was not in the best of humours, having just spent some time talking seriously with his son. He looked across at Marcus with a frown as they sat down. He found his only child both an exasperation and a disappointment, for although the family was rich enough that Marcus need not work for a living, Claude did not like to see a young man living in idleness or - which was more likely with his son - getting into mischief with women, since he seemed hell-bent on proving that his small stature did not imply a lack of virility.

But Marcus had not settled well into the family business, wanting to take wild gambles by sending dubious merchandise to the colonies - something Claude did not approve of. He had built his own reputation as a prosperous Manchester merchant on sound goods and practices, enjoying the challenge of finding markets for Lancashire goods around the world and making his profit by acting as a middleman.

The maid brought in a note just as they were finishing the meal and he stared at it in surprise, for his correspondence usually went to his business chambers in Manchester. Who would be having notes hand delivered to a house in such an isolated situation on the edge of the moors? He used his butter knife to open it, read it once, then a second time more slowly.

‘Did you realise my sister Matilda’s husband had lost all his money before he got himself murdered?’ he demanded of his wife, though there was no reason why Eleanor should know that, any more than he had. They had simply assumed when they heard of James Oswald’s death that he would have provided properly for his widow. She certainly hadn’t tried to contact them since. He tapped the letter sharply. ‘It appears that all she has to live on is a tiny annuity which William set up before he died. This letter is from the bank owner who pays her the money, suggesting we help her. She’s penniless, selling her possessions to put bread on the table apparently!’

His son and wife were both staring at him in amazement.

‘Why did she not ask us for help?’ Eleanor frowned as she licked butter delicately off one plump fingertip. ‘Marcus, pray pass me the gooseberry conserve.’

‘Perhaps she thought I would follow my father’s example and refuse to acknowledge her.’

‘And shall you?’

‘How can I do that? Think how would it look - an Armistead reduced to paupery! But of all the inconveniences ... She’s still living in Northby -
Northby
of
all places! -
in some hovel. What are the Rishmores going to think?’

‘We’ve plenty of time to remedy matters before the marriage. They’ll be in mourning for the next year.’ Eleanor took another large bite of toast.

Marcus grimaced. Jane Rishmore had a face like a horse and was taller than he was. ‘I’m only twenty-three. There’s surely no hurry for me to marry and...’ His voice tailed away as his father turned on him a basilisk stare that reminded him suddenly of the last time he’d had to confess to having debts he could not settle.

‘Given your behaviour over the past year or two, I would prefer to have you settled,’ Claude told him. ‘Besides, Rishmore and I have certain joint ventures in mind and there is no way to guarantee loyalty that is half as reliable as a judicious marriage.’ He glared at his son, who spent far too much time and energy chasing women - any woman, it seemed, even a reluctant one. No, the sooner Marcus was wed the better. Claude needed a grandson whom he could mould into a strong man capable of running the family concerns efficiently and honestly, something he doubted his son capable of.

Marcus scowled down at his plate, biting back a protest. His parents had definitely decided on Jane Rishmore, then. There was no bearing it! But his father had made it plain he was prepared to behave generously in financial matters only for as long as his son and heir did exactly as he wished in other matters.

Eleanor broke the silence. ‘What exactly do you wish to do for your sister, Claude?’

He shrugged. ‘We’ve plenty of room here. She can live in the east wing and need only eat with us when we don’t have guests or when the Rishmores come to call.’

‘She’ll need her own maid.’

He waved one hand dismissively. ‘That won’t cost much. We’ll drive over to Northby tomorrow and bring her back with us. You can both come with me to show the Rishmores how this family cares for its own.’

 

Emmy woke early and shivered her way quickly into some clothes. She crept downstairs in the dark to get the embers of the kitchen fire burning again with judiciously placed pieces of wood and coal, then swung the kettle over it. Like her mistress she wished they had a proper cooking range so that they could bake and stew food more easily, but they managed.

Mrs Tibby was too frail to lift heavy pans and kettles now, though, and how would she ever manage on her own? But George Duckworth had taken to staring at Emmy with such a gloating air lately that she knew the day was coming when she’d have to leave Northby. She’d been wondering for a while how to tell Mrs Tibby of her fears.

She took a cup of tea to her mistress then went to get the hot brick she’d buried under the ashes the previous night, wrapping it in rags and a piece of old blanket before carrying it upstairs. Its warmth helped take the night’s stiffness out of Mrs Tibby’s painful joints.

When Emmy went down to drink a cup of tea herself it was to a cosy kitchen, the rain outside beating against the window panes. Thanks to Mr Garrett’s help, they now had a coalhouse full of best brights and a little money in the bank. If they continued to be careful, there was enough to cover their modest needs for several years.

The day passed in domestic pursuits and in the early afternoon Emmy began to read one of Miss Austen’s tales to her mistress, a book whose characters firmly believed it necessary for a man to have thousands of pounds a year before it was worth marrying him. Mrs Tibby had tried to explain to Emmy how the rich lived, but it was beyond the girl’s comprehension and she derived more pleasure from her mistress’s enjoyment of this book than from the tale itself.

Neither of the women thought anything of it when they heard the sound of wheels and horses’ hooves as a vehicle stopped outside. Emmy didn’t even bother to go and look out of the window, so when footsteps approached their door and someone banged on it loudly they were both startled.

‘Who can that be?’ whispered Mrs Tibby.

Emmy peered out of the window. ‘It’s a private carriage and there’s a gentleman at the door.’

They stared at one another in shock as the knocker sounded again, then Emmy straightened her pinafore. ‘I’d best answer it.’

The gentleman was not very tall and was rather portly, dressed in best broadcloth with a heavy greatcoat to keep him warm and a top hat protecting his head from the rain. He stared down his nose at Emmy and asked, ‘Does Mrs Oswald live here?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m your mistress’s brother. Well? Don’t stand there barring the way, girl! Show me in!’

There was a gasp from behind Emmy and she turned to see her mistress push herself to her feet, her face chalky-white. Without thinking she rushed across to support Mrs Tibby.

The gentleman followed her inside, removing his rain-sprinkled top hat and giving it a quick shake, then unbuttoning his greatcoat. He didn’t look best pleased and Emmy began to worry about what he was doing here.

Claude watched with a frown as the maid gently coaxed her mistress into sitting down. His sister looked very frail and old, and it galled him to see an Armistead living in such a hovel.

The girl turned to him, saying with a familiarity of which he disapproved, ‘She’s not well, sir, and I’m afraid you’ve startled her. Please close the door and take a seat.’